Archive for the ‘Frank Hudson’ Tag

The Sky Is Low   4 comments

The Sky is low — the Clouds are mean’ — Image by kenne

A few days ago, Frank Hudson posted an analysis of this little poem by Emily Dickinson. I continue to learn a lot from Frank’s posts, his summaries, and music.
 
His efforts remind me of my sophomore English teacher, who was dealt the hand of teaching an all jock class of young boys. During every class, she would read at least one poem. She was like the mother taking her children to the museum, hoping to instill some humanity. At the time, we thought she was wasting her’s and our time. Time has proven otherwise. 
 
Although I don’t have anywhere near Frank’s analysis skills, I enjoy reading and learning from his posts.
 
— kenne

The Sky is low — the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go —

A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him
Nature, like Us is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.

— Emily Dickinson

On the Grasshopper and Cricket — Keats   Leave a comment

Grasshopper On CactusHorse Lubber Grasshopper — Photo-Artistry by kenne

One of the many bloggers I follow is “The Parlando Project – Where Music and Words Meet,” where Frank Hudson presents short audio pieces, from 2 to 10 minutes in length, combining music and spoken word in various ways.

On July 31st Frank posted “On the Grasshopper and Cricket.” Click here to read Frank’s story on what lead him to combine music with the Keats poem and listen to the audio.

On the Grasshopper and Cricket

The Poetry of earth is never dead:

  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

  And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead

  In summer luxury,—he has never done

  With his delights; for when tired out with fun

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

  On a lone winter evening, when the frost

    Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,

  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

    The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.

— John Keats

 

 

%d bloggers like this: